


Stasis

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Softly, Gently [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Animal death (not graphic), Depression, Emotionally Constipated Men, Forced confrontation, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Loneliness, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Resolution, Romance, Second Chance, Weddings, oh yeah the sex stuff, one-night stands, their upper lips aren't the only things stiff about them, two middle aged men falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-12-30 15:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18318383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Had an attempted murder occurred at the wedding of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, no one would have been surprised. The last thing Mycroft expected to happen however, was that he would meet a most compelling man.A one-night stand is, by definition, meant to last for one night. But when there's the chance for more, Mycroft will have to find the courage to act on it or risk losing a chance at happiness.





	1. Mycroft

Mycroft had few personal regrets; but then, never having  _ had _ much of a personal life helped immensely. Most of said regrets involved his siblings. The bitterest regret, however, was the most personal of all: his treatment of and subsequent loss of Greg Lestrade. 

 

In the second occasion on which he had allowed personal inclination and emotion to supercede his commitment to Crown and county, Mycroft had fallen for a pair of mesmerizingly warm brown eyes. To his continued surprise and uneasy fear, Greg had quickly become of undue importance to him. Terrified at the strength of his feelings--and at the potential leverage his weakness would provide his enemies--Mycroft had ended things abruptly. 

 

Shouting, tears and accusations of heartlessness had rung in his ears, but at the time Mycroft had truly believed that it was all for the best. No one could sustain that level of happiness for too long. And certainly no one could ever return his regard with equal strength. Better to end it before he was utterly compromised. 

 

Only, as it turned out, he was already hopelessly compromised by his feelings for Greg, and it became impossible to stay away. The following years were a symphony of sweet torment. Mycroft, used to a private life which remained private, to a mental landscape unburdened by sentiment, to a heart which beat evenly, calmly,  _ coldly _ , became nearly obsessed by his need to retain distance while struggling to let Greg in. 

 

Ultimately the dichotomy of need versus desire was too much and Mycroft took the inevitable step of deciding to end things permanently. Only before he could do so, Greg ended things between them.  _ For good _ , he'd said grimly, face swollen with the tears he'd shed, implacable despite his rough breathing, the struggle with his emotions.  _ I can't do this anymore. I deserve better _ . 

 

_ Better than you _ he hadn't needed to say. The implication was clear. Mycroft stumbled for the first time in his life. Facing a future which didn't contain Greg--Greg, who had become part of the landscape of his very narrow personal life--Mycroft did the unprecedented. He cried off work and social obligations and immured himself in his house for four days. 

 

Flu, he'd texted Anthea, and locked away the world. She had to know it was a lie, but she merely cleared his schedule, took over the reins and defended his time and privacy with admirable aplomb. When he emerged from his self-imposed isolation, Mycroft had appeared to the world much as usual. He'd carried on as he always carried on. He was a Holmes and he had duties and responsibilities which he could not shirk. His resolve not to contact Greg had lasted for over a year, but just as his heart was wavering--it was the longest they had ever been at odds in the duration of their tumultuous relationship--a change occurred. 

 

Mycroft was frankly startled. He knew of course that Dr Stamford was Greg's closest friend, and naturally he had long ago divined that the man was silently eating his heart out for Greg. What he hadn't known nor foreseen was that Greg would ever reciprocate his regard. 

 

The security monitoring which was both a necessity as well as a painful indulgence had continued on when their relationship ended. Mycroft wouldn't shirk his responsibility for Greg's welfare now that their connection was ended. Nor could he entirely resist occasionally tormenting himself by quietly checking the CCTV footage personally. 

 

Which was what he was doing when he saw that not only had Dr Stamford escorted a tipsy Greg to his home, but that neither had emerged until late the following afternoon. Both bore signs of physical pleasure as well as the giddiness of two people in love. Heart shattering, Mycroft watched silently, refusing to allow tears to rise, as the newly-in-love couple spent the weekend together. This mostly consisted of them only occasionally emerging from what were clearly exhausting bouts of love-making to reel into London, hands entwined, faces glowing. 

 

Unsure what he intended, Mycroft had approached Dr Stamford, wanting to see for himself the face of the man who had permanently stolen his future. Even if said future had been one he had thrown away with both hands and vowed never to reach for again.

 

\---------------------------

 

Leaning his head back against the headrest, Mycroft closed his eyes and worked at collecting himself. The car would arrive at Whitehall soon enough, and he must be utterly calm and composed. No one must be allowed to glimpse his emotions and wonder. Weakness was only as great as the chinks you allowed it to escape through. 

 

He congratulated himself on success until he arrived at his outer offices. The receptionist rose to his feet and greeted him as always, taking his coat and umbrella and carrying them away to the coat closet. Anthea, however, looked up from her desk as he let himself into her office, and while she didn't do something so vulgar as to do a double take, her eyes altered. “I'll order tea and be at your desk with the Moscow files in fifteen minutes, sir.”

 

“Make it five, please my dear,” Mycroft said smoothly as he opened the door to his inner chambers, “No need to linger when there's business needing our attention.”

 

“Very good, Mr Holmes,” was all she said, although the microsecond pause before she spoke communicated volumes. 

 

Alone, Mycroft entered his en suite and regarded his reflection, seeking out whatever it was which had betrayed him. His face was much as always, perhaps a touch pale, but then he had a redhead's complexion, if not the hair. Ah. It was his eyes. They were quietly mourning. Avoiding his eyes, telling himself he was fine and would remain fine, that it was  _ all fine _ , Mycroft removed his suit jacket and hung it neatly on the valet stand. Hands steady, he removed his cufflinks and rolled up his cuffs. Two minutes washing his face with cool water and composing himself, and he would be as he always was. 

 

Lathering a soft flannel with his favourite imported Moroccan rose soap, Mycroft bathed his face, concentrating on the comforting aroma he rarely indulged in.  _ Flowers are lovely to look at Myc _ , he heard his mother say to his fourteen year old self with painful clarity,  _ but flowery scents aren't suitable for boys to wear.  _ He’d been so humiliated, not the least because of her gentle tone, as if he were a small boy who’d made an error, rather than a frighteningly bright teenager. Somehow he’d assumed that neither Mummy nor Father had noticed him sneaking drops of perfume from a vial he’d purchased at the village store. Sherlock, of course, had noticed, but in the simple way of children had merely hugged him tightly, burying his nose in Mycroft’s jumper, and told him he smelled nice. 

 

Rinsing his face with cold water, rinsing away the awkward memory with it, Mycroft dried it carefully on the equally soft hand towel and studied his reflection. It was no good. All the frigid water and hand-milled soaps in the world couldn't wash away his regret and heartbreak. 

 

“Heartbreak,” he tried scoffing, seeking the emotional remove he'd once worn like armour. But it was no good. That had crumbled long ago when he first admitted to himself that he had feelings of more than admiration for the handsome police detective. Rolling his sleeves into place and fitting his cufflinks in position restored some of his composure, as did donning his suit jacket. His armor. Sherlock might have wanted to be a pirate when they were children, but Mycroft had always modeled himself after knights of old.  _ What you did to Greg wasn't very chivalrous, _ his mind whispered, but he shied away from the knowledge, unable to bear any more reminders of his failure at this precise moment. “Now,” Mycroft said evenly, emerging from his en suite to find Anthea setting out the tea tray, “to work.”

 

\----------------------------------

 

On the balmiest of June evenings, in a charming venue just outside London, two men of middle age stood before their gathered friends and family and pledged to do as they had done from the day they met: love one another through the good times as well as the bad.There had been quite a lot of stunningly bad times, but they’d emerged triumphant, battered but smiling, their bond all the stronger for the pain and loss. One man present had made it his personal mission to ensure that their lives enjoyed quite a bit more smooth sailing from this point forward. He didn’t even consider it meddling--at this point what was one more duty, one more obligation to the well-being and comfort of his brother?

 

There were quite a few friends in attendance--more than either groom had quite realized they had. The family present might, perhaps, have extended beyond the definition of blood relations, but there were those there who had earned the title. Remarkably absent were the parents of one of the men, though both were still living. A few people there knew the story behind their absence, most did not; none remarked on it, though secretly many probably longed for a good gossip.

 

Despite the formality of a wedding ceremony, there was a certain bohemian aesthetic to the day, and none of the wedding party wore ties nor waistcoats, though John had on a very sharp midnight blue suit coat and trousers, and was looking exceptionally handsome. Greg Lestrade stood at John’s side during the ceremony, smiling as he watched two of the finest men he had known finally pledge their troth. Next to the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes stood his best “man,” Molly Hooper. Despite the flame she had carried stubbornly for Sherlock for so many years, today Molly was unreservedly happy for him. The smile on her bright face matched the one on Greg’s. 

 

Molly’s date for the evening had much to do with that, or so Mycroft surmised. He personally had no grudge against Sally Donovan, although he’d always despaired of the animosity between the Sergeant and his brother. Today, however, she was actually smiling, and Mycroft had witnessed her shake both John and Sherlock’s hands and wish them well. Sherlock looked smug, and Mycroft sent up a brief petition to the universe that he would behave himself. John would no doubt be happy that at least one of his weddings went without a hitch, but Sherlock was always happiest when there was mischief afoot. Although the last few years had seen him settle remarkably.

 

One of those reasons was his goddaughter (soon to be daughter officially). Three year old Rosie Watson, wearing a plaid dress in the wedding colours of deep blue and silvery grey, had served as flower girl, and now spun around the floor with John’s sister, Harriet, who had successfully managed a fifth year sober. Mycroft had of course fully vetted her to determine her suitability as Rosie’s guardian. Given the life that Sherlock and John led, Rosie was safer and more settled living with her Aunt Harriet and Harriet’s fiancee, Janelle. She spent every other weekend with her father and Sherlock, and the two men (and behind the scenes, Mycroft) ensured that the three days went by peacefully and safely.

 

A tearfully smiling Mrs Hudson had given Sherlock away, and took her congratulations as proudly as if she’d been his birth mother. Mycroft wondered if their parents even knew of Sherlock’s nuptials. Following his parents’ fury and subsequent shunning, Mycroft had withdrawn from family life, not seeing them again until the visit all of them had made to Sherrinford the Christmas following the terrible events at the island. Sherlock had made monthly visits, trying to draw their sister out, but had only succeeded in coaxing her to accompany him on the violin. To Mycroft’s surprise, Sherlock had, it seemed, refused to speak to their parents’ unless they agreed to Mycroft attending the family gathering. Mummy, moved by the music, and perhaps by the spirit of the season, had patted his hand during the performance.

  
  


Their hearts hadn’t truly softened, however, and things further fell apart. Mycroft found to his surprise, that being abandoned by his parents at the age of forty-five hurt rather worse than he had expected. He was warmed by Sherlock’s loyalty; his younger brother cut further ties with the elder Holmes, telling Mycroft merely that their animosity wasn’t something he wanted tainting his goddaughter’s life.

 

Despite all the problems of the past, their relationship had improved, and he almost felt like a friend, rather than a foe. Witness his inclusion in the guest list. Sherlock had personally delivered his invitation (of course entering through the bedroom window in the middle of the night, impishly hoping to give Mycroft a fright), and apologized for not asking him to be his best man. “I’ve asked Molly,” he’d said simply. Mycroft, far from being hurt, was relieved. He wasn’t exactly a warm and welcoming addition to any party, and too he wasn’t sure that he could attend all of the expected functions and spend significant time with fellow groomsman Greg. There was kindness in Sherlock that many people overlooked.

 

It had been two years since he’d lost his chance at happiness, but Mycroft still felt a pang of what-might-have-been when he looked at Greg’s happy face. Happy being the key word, Mycroft always stressed to that weak part of himself that longed for a return of his former lover. Mike Stamford was clearly the superior man and partner, and Greg had bloomed under his affection. Mycroft didn’t begrudge them their happiness, but it left a hollow ache under his ribs. He’d had a chance at that and been so careless as to push it away with force and in the process utterly destroy any chance at regaining Greg's regard. 

 

Now was not the time for melancholy, however. Maintaining a pleasant expression--not a hardship on this happy day--Mycroft circulated lightly, nodding at fellow guests, stopping to chat briefly with acquaintances. Mrs Hudson, overflowing with happiness for “her boys” went so far as to hug him. Mycroft smoothed the front of his soft pink button down, feeling oddly flustered, and doubly so when he was reminded that not only was he not wearing his usual armour, but that he was wearing such a bold colour. 

 

Sherlock had stressed that the wedding was to be dress casual and that Mycroft needn’t appear dressed like Uncle Rudy. “Either Uncle Rudy in Whitehall or Uncle Rudy at home,” he’d sort of jested, referring to their uncle’s habits of wearing women’s peignoirs when alone at his home. A lifetime of subconsciously obeying Mummy’s very definite views on the proper attire for a male had meant he’d only occasionally allowed himself to splash out and choose a vibrant colour. This particular shade of pink was hardly bold, truth be told, more in the nature of the pink of a strawberry ice cream, but he nevertheless felt odd. More so because he’d given himself a shot of courage in choosing to dab rose oil behind his ears.

 

Sherlock had hugged him and pulled away with a familiar look dawning on his face. Leaning back in, he hugged Mycroft briefly a second time and whispered, “Welcome back, Mycie.”

 

At least it was socially acceptable for a man to cry at the wedding of his little brother.

 

Social obligations fulfilled, Mycroft stopped by the bar--they had foregone formality and a seated dinner with speeches, waiters and a band in favour of an open bar, a buffet of choice nibbles, and a deejay (someone who owed John a favour). He was pleasantly surprised by the quality of whisky, and withdrew to one of the windows to gain a little distance from the animated crowd. It wasn’t a huge gathering, perhaps some three dozen guests, but he felt mildly overwhelmed. 

 

Staring out the window at the gently setting sun, Mycroft gathered his composure, enjoying the gentle big band standard playing. He toyed with the idea of asking Greg to dance but dismissed it as problematic. Better not to disturb the calm waters of his happiness. Instead he admired the English countryside and blessed Anthea for maintaining a vigil over the nation whilst he spent a few hours celebrating his brother’s wedding. She was always exemplary in the performance of her duties, but the last few years she had truly been invaluable, and he owed her an extra week off. Let her go enjoy some personal time with her partners. Maybe he’d offer her the use of his house in Tuscany. Heaven knew he rarely got to enjoy it.

 

He’d always intended to suggest it to Greg but things were always so turbulent between them…

 

Shaking off the direction of his thoughts, Mycroft sipped at his drink. So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he was slightly startled when a deep, calm voice asked from a respectful distance away, “Shall I be disturbing you if I join you?”

 

Mycroft half turned, “Not at all,” he said politely. He nodded at the man who joined him in staring out the window. “Parties not your cup of tea?”

 

He snorted softly, “Not exactly. Usually spend my time alone managing the farm.” No more words were forthcoming, and Mycroft recognized a man who, like himself, wasn’t uncomfortable with silence. It was blessedly welcome. 

 

“I sympathize,” Mycroft assured him, tapping his fingers lightly on his nearly empty glass. “Most of my days are spent alone in my office, dealing with the headache which follows others poor decision making.” He slant a rueful smile at the other man, who was studying him subtly. Their eyes met briefly before they both looked away. Mycroft ignored his pounding heart, “Crowds aren’t really my thing.”

 

“Nor mine,” he assured Mycroft. He gave a half smile, “I’m James, by the way.”

 

“Mycroft,” he said, not offering his hand since James held his drink in his good hand. There was a flash of thanks from those pale eyes at his silent act of consideration. Companionably they sipped their drinks.

 

“It would be quieter outside,” Mycroft ventured after a few minutes. Their silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but the noise of the room necessitated raising his voice if they were to converse. He put a hand invitingly on the handle, and James smiled. Opening the door, they slipped outside, closing it behind them. The night was warm and balmy, the sun set but the sky still stained berry-bright with the last of the light. High above them the midnight-blue sky shone with the stars it was almost impossible to see in London. Mycroft breathed easier at the muffling of music, laughter and ebullient conversation.

 

“This is nice,” James commented, tipping his head back to regard the stars. Mycroft took the opportunity to steal a look at the long line of his throat, the granite jaw. His fingers sweated silently on the glass in his grip.

 

“I imagine you’re used to seeing the stars in Yorkshire,” Mycroft remarked without thinking. He blinked, appalled at himself. He always employed an internal filter.

 

There was a micro-pause, then James replied, with a touch of weariness, “You recognized me.”

 

He had, but only because he had an eidetic memory and he was fully versed on the disaster of John Watson’s wedding to Mary Morstan and the incredible events which had occurred. “I apologize for that,” he said with difficulty, bracing for the other man to walk away. He hadn’t made such a gaffe since the age of seventeen, when he went away to university and discovered just how deeply people resented having him read them like an open book. It had been a shock for all involved. Home schooling really had been an abysmal decision on his mother’s part. “It’s a bit of an involuntary thing, reading people.” His mouth twisted bitterly, “I’m usually better at holding my tongue.”

 

“You’re Sherlock’s brother,” James said surprisingly. He was scrutinizing Mycroft, head slightly tilted to the right, “You do that thing he does.”

 

“Unlike my brother I try to avoid unsettling or offending,” Mycroft sighed. “I do apologize.”

 

“It’s alright,” James said surprisingly. “It’s--I don’t usually--” He stopped, clearly groping for words, and Mycroft waited. “I’m alone most of the time,” he finally said, voice low, “by choice. But it’s nice...being seen.”

 

“Even in chosen solitude one gets terribly lonely,” Mycroft agreed, wondering where his usual discretion had fled to. He was being appallingly indiscreet but found he didn’t care. Perhaps he and James had more in common than their mutual dislike of parties, and their seeking of quiet. He thought of his parents’ soul-deep bond, the glowing happiness of his brother and John, the perfect balance of Greg with Mike Stamford. He thought of the pairs and symmetry found in the natural world and for once in his life wondered if perhaps his natural state wasn’t to be alone.

 

_ He’s a pleasant man at a party, _ he lectured himself,  _ not your soul mate _ . It must be the proximity to Greg, and his own maudlin thoughts which were unsettling him so.

 

“It’s hard to realize we’re not quite as self-sufficient as we’d always supposed, isn’t it?” James’ tone was light, but there was truth underlying his words. He cleared his throat, and Mycroft swallowed against the heavy feeling in his throat, trying to wash it away with whisky, only to find he’d emptied his glass. 

 

Nodding at Mycroft’s drink, James asked, “Get you another? I don’t normally indulge in more than one, but it is a celebration after all.”

 

Mycroft thanked him and informed him as to what he was drinking. He took the opportunity to more closely study James as he walked away. Powerful frame, slight limp, partially paralyzed left arm, face ruggedly handsome in spite of the burn scars, red-gold hair close cropped. The pale blue eyes were stunning and had momentarily stolen Mycroft’s breath.  _ For god’s sake _ , he hissed to his libido,  _ you are at your brother’s wedding, the man is a stranger, behave yourself.  _ Still, there was something compelling about the other man. There was something irresistible about the feeling of being  _ seen _ . More than that, appreciated rather than pitied or feared.

 

The taller man returned, carefully holding two whisky glasses in his large right palm. Mycroft took his with thanks, fingers brushing the thrilling warmth of his wrist, and they exchanged a startled look. The attraction which arced between them was as powerful as electricity. “To John Watson,” James said, tapping his glass against Mycroft’s.

 

“To Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft returned the salute. They drank, and he added, “May they be happy.”

 

“Please god,” he heard James murmur with a particularly familiar note dampening his voice; Mycroft had his suspicions of the man’s former, unrequited feelings for the army doctor confirmed.  _ We all have our heartaches _ , he thought, pushing away the memory of warm brown eyes.

 

Rather than give in to the impulse to share his own missed chance in a reckless, foolish, whisky-soaked moment of insanity, Mycroft swallowed whisky, and asked with forced casualness, “You don’t care to be in there dancing?” He didn’t share Sherlock’s love of dance, although he participated on State occasions, as duty dictated. Tonight he wanted no duty dances. The longing for a pair of eager arms around him was strong, but he pushed it down.

 

“I wouldn’t subject anyone to the spectacle,” his companion said wryly. He tapped his leg, “Not very dependable.”

 

“Still, there are other ways to amuse oneself at a wedding,” Mycroft said idly. The implications of his words didn’t strike him until they dropped like a stone into the sudden deep silence between them. He closed his eyes, pained, and hoped James would smooth over the moment with some empty remark. Instead there was an echoing silence which lingered, before he responded.

 

“‘Fraid I’ve not much luck there either,” he said, striving for casual and unaffected, but revealing more than he knew. “The things which keep me from dancing rather preclude me from assignations.” A rueful snort, “Not taken my kit off in front of anyone else in  _ years _ . They’d run screaming.”

 

“More fool they,” Mycroft said more hotly than was warranted. Good Lord, had his brother drugged him somehow? What on earth was wrong with his sense of decorum?

 

“You’re kind,” James said awkwardly.

 

“Truthful,” Mycroft rebutted, throwing caution and discretion to the wind. Forcing himself to meet those compelling eyes, Mycroft felt himself pulled in, drowning in the mutual desire, breathless with not knowing what was going to happen next for once in his gods-damned life. Giddy, he tossed back the last of his whisky and set the glass on the wide balustrade surrounding the terrace. 

 

Following suit, James studied his glass for a moment before his eyes met Mycroft’s, direct, almost too intense, “I want to kiss you.”

 

“I want to let you,” Mycroft whispered, throat dry. He licked his lips and watched in fascination as James’ eyes darkened with desire. It was heady, this feeling. He’d never in his admittedly limited sexual experience been pursued. Always he had made the first move. Had anyone ever wanted him without him trying his best to charm them, seduce them, dazzle them with his power?

 

With a murmured apology for having only one good arm, James put it around him. They both shivered at the contact, then automatically exchanged nearly shy smiles. With their slight height difference, and James’ greater muscle mass, Mycroft felt fragile in a way he hadn’t experienced in years, if ever. It wasn’t an entirely uncomfortable feeling, in fact there was something tender about it. 

 

James didn’t rush the kiss, instead letting his hand rest warmly on Mycroft’s lower back and brushing his unscarred cheek against Mycroft’s, lips grazing his earlobe and sending another thrill through Mycroft. “You smell wonderful,” James murmured, dipping his head to breathe in Mycroft’s scent. 

 

“It’s...rose oil,” Mycroft admitted, blushing for the first time in decades. What  _ was _ it about this man that unsettled his usual composure and made him feel off balance and almost giddy? What was more, why did he like it so? 

 

“It suits you,” James said in a low voice, his deep register dropping into a near-growl which did visceral things to Mycroft’s insides. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke it arrested Mycroft.

 

Abandoning words altogether, James trailed his lips over Mycroft’s smooth-shaven cheek and between one breath and another captured his lips with gentle pressure and kissed him until the stars swam before Mycroft’s wondering eyes. Closing his eyes against the feeling of dizziness, Mycroft let himself cling to the larger man and exist in the moment, in his physical pleasure, in the feeling of a strong arm around his waist, the other lightly, awkwardly stroking his back. He realized both of his hands were over James’ chest, crushing his fine white shirt. He would have apologized, but his lips were otherwise occupied, and anyway it was clear that his passion was equally matched. 

 

They might have gone on kissing for hours, only someone startled them both badly by throwing open a nearby terrace door and rather shrilly declaring it was ‘bloody hot’ in the room. The spill of light and music was jarring, and their sense of privacy easily destroyed. Mycroft began to pull away, but James didn’t move, except to bring his left hand, with it’s slightly curled fingers, up to touch Mycroft’s cheek. “I’ve a room here,” was all he said, but Mycroft caught his breath at the possibilities.

 

He’d intended on summoning his waiting driver so that he could return to London, to sleep in his own bed, in privacy, security and comfort. It sounded awful when compared to the heady possibility that he might have an unexpected night of passion with a handsome man on this night which seemed full of magical potential. “I’d love to see it,” he said recklessly. Anthea would be metaphorically screaming at his abandoning protocol like that, and scrambling to make alternate arrangements. Mycroft also suspected his loyal PA would also be smugly pleased that he was taking a selfish step for once in his life.

 

They parted, smoothing their hair and clothing, and running eyes over one another. They passed muster, and stepped back through the open window and into the warm ballroom, with its pulsing lights, buoyant music and exultant guests dancing happily. Mycroft was glad of the throng, as it allowed them to slip through the room undetected. He caught sight of John and Sherlock dancing in the middle of the room, faces alight as they smiled at one another. John didn’t see him, but Sherlock did, and the brother’s eyes locked over the heads between them. Sharp eyes flitted between Mycroft and James, and then Sherlock smiled, smug, sweet and pleased. With a happy grin he drew John to him and whirled away through the crowd. With this unexpected brotherly approval, Mycroft allowed himself to follow James out of the ballroom and down the corridor. 

 

As only to be expected of a security-minded man, James was on the upper floor, but contrary to any expectations that he might use the lift and give his leg a rest, he headed for the staircase. “Supposed to keep my leg limber,” he remarked somewhat gruffly, following the quick flick of Mycroft’s eyes from his leg toward the lift. He was obviously uncomfortable discussing his limitations.

 

“I believe I can help you...warm up,” Mycroft said suggestively, mounting the stairs beside him. He felt rather than saw James’ sudden smile, and after a moment they started laughing. “I’m sorry, apparently I am capable of only the most appalling double entendres tonight.”

 

“It’s been a while since I laughed,” James admitted, turning down the right hand corridor, reaching in his trouser pocket for the room key. He glanced over one shoulder while fitting it into the electronic lock. “Feels nice.”

 

“It does, doesn’t it?” Mycroft asked, rather than rejoin with,  _ you feel nice _ , as he’d nearly done. Then he thought about the warm, unexpected sound of James’ laughter, and how good it had felt to be the reason for it. “You feel nice as well,” he ventured, closing the door behind them. He pressed his back against it and widened his eyes slightly at James when the other man turned back toward him. “I’d like to feel you again.”

 

James grinned, sharply amused, almost feral with desire and want, and stalked forward the few steps between them. “Bet you would,” he said on a low laugh, trapping Mycroft with a hand planted on either side of his head. They both ignored his left hand, which slid down a little until he leaned harder on his shoulder to brace it. He stepped in close, until his chest was pressed to Mycroft’s, “Speaking of feeling…”

 

Putting his right hand on Mycroft’s waist, he gave him a squeeze (Mycroft was immensely grateful for both his diet and his hours on the treadmlll), letting his hand move with purpose around to grasp his arse cheek firmly. The kiss was deeper than the ones downstairs, eager, more  _ hungry _ . Mycroft gasped silently into his mouth and ran his hands over James’ chest, brushing his nipples, which peaked gratifyingly, and then around his sides to slide both hands into the other man’s back pockets. He massaged the deliciously firm arse he was cupping, and coaxed James’ lips apart with his tongue, finessing the kiss into something deeper still. His heart was beating wildly, and Mycroft reveled in feeling very nearly out of control for the first time in ages. He was bloody  _ alive _ .

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Used to waking before dawn, and often at the summons of his mobile, Mycroft snapped instantly awake when his phone vibrated quietly in his trouser pocket on the floor. In an unprecedented act, he’d not only failed to neatly fold his clothing the night before, but neglected to put his mobile within easy reach.

 

Softly stealing out from under the warm covers (and the friendly weight of James’ hand on his hip) Mycroft fetched the insistent device and slipped into the en suite, wincing at the bright overhead light he turned on only when he’d closed the door. There was a coded text from Anthea, couched in an apology, but most definitely a call to duty. Meeting his own bright, tired eyes in the mirror, Mycroft was surprised to find he looked oddly both older and younger than usual. Beneath the stretched out neck of his undershirt, his pale chest was marked with love bites and a few light scratches, and he flushed. These marks of his indiscretion he could cover with clothing, but the plain fact was that he needed a quick rinse off at the very least.

 

Five minutes later he was wrapped in a towel, utilising the complimentary toiletries, since James had his own items already arranged with military precision on the counter. Within two more minutes he had exited the en suite as quietly as possible, moving carefully through the dark room fetching his clothes and dressing silently. All the while he debated with himself over whether or not to wake the other man and bid him thanks and farewell. It felt sordid to leave without a goodbye, but part of him winced away from spoiling a perfect night with empty promises to keep in touch. Far rather would he keep the memory of the night which had passed preserved in his memory than sully it with polite nothings.

 

Fumbling his wristwatch into place, Mycroft mentally scanned the room for any items he might have missed. He’d donned all his clothing, his watch, mobile and wallet were in place on his person and the only thing he was leaving behind was a carefree part of his soul Mycroft had been unaware even existed. Enough. He was stalling, hoping James would waken and he could delay leaving. Blowing out a silent breath, he turned toward the door. However he got no more than two steps before a deep voice rumbled softly from the bed, “Will I see you again?”

 

Mycroft was too self-possessed to jump in surprise, but he was grateful it was dark, since he couldn’t keep the startled look of pleasure from his face. He paused, looked back, could just make out the bulk of James leaning on one elbow. “Did you want to?”

 

“I’m forty-four, Mycroft, too old for a one night stand. If you don’t want to see me again, say so. Otherwise…” James trailed off in an uncharacteristic display of uncertainty. “I come to London once a month for estate business.”

 

It was a lie. A blatant one. Mycroft knew it and so did James. Mycroft thrilled silently that he was wanted badly enough to not only cause this honourable man to lie, but for it to be worth the intensely private and security-conscious James to be willing to venture into London to see  _ him _ . “My life being what it is, I cannot make promises that I’ll be available when you call,” Mycroft warned, “But I should very much like to see you again.”

 

James shed the tangled bedding and rose to cross to Mycroft. He put his good hand on Mycroft’s side, leaned into kiss him, “I need your number.”

 

_ It shall be in your phone within the hour _ , Mycroft would normally have said. But James, he knew instinctively, would not react well to his habitual high-handedness and ability to hack into secure devices. “Hand me your phone,” he said instead, and once James had found it (similarly abandoned to the floor), he typed in his name and number as a new contact--and after a moment’s thought added his personal email. “Text me so I’ll have your number.” He added, “Only this once, please, I very much dislike texting.”

 

“We have that in common,” James said, a smile in his voice. Mycroft couldn’t resist kissing him again, but pulled away after a moment.

 

“Work,” he excused, and James gave him a light, friendly push toward the door.

“Go,” he said, “Until next time.”

 

In the car, Mycroft was appalled to realize that not once all night had he thought about the driver. “Collins,” he said in apology as he entered the backseat, “I’m terribly sorry for my lack of consideration. I forgot to text you to return to London. I hope you didn’t sleep in the car.”

 

“Not a worry, sir,” Collins said cheerfully, turning the Jaguar towards the road to London. “Miss Anthea texted me last night, said plans had changed. She arranged me nice little room and I got a proper night’s sleep. I’ve already eaten, sir, and there’s tea and a pastry for you there, to hold you over until we reach Whitehall.”

 

“Collins,” Mycroft said, ignoring the implication that Anthea was perfectly aware of just what had kept him overnight. “You are a gem.” Gratefully he sipped his tea, ignoring the pastry, although his stomach protested. Without his laptop there wasn’t much he could get accomplished until he arrived at work, and so he was free to turn his thoughts to the night before. 

 

He’d rarely indulged in sexual encounters, Greg being a rather sterling exception, and never in a one night stand. Always in the past there had been a dance around the issue of who would top. Mycroft enjoyed penetration but he found the preparation tiresome, undignified and rather messy. The majority of men he’d been with seemed to feel that he would prefer not to bottom, and that he was a natural dominant personality in bed, an impression he’d never worked to dispel. Without trampling over his dignity, James had taken control. Biting softly at Mycroft’s lower lip, he stroked his hands up and down Mycroft’s back. “I prefer oral,” he said frankly, “and hands. You?”

 

“Same,” Mycroft replied, thankful that he’d been spared the necessity of bringing it up. Honesty and a sense of fair play made him add, “If you  _ do _ wish…”

 

“I wish for us both to enjoy ourselves,” James assured him. “We might be more comfortable on the bed.”

 

Mycroft merely nodded, swallowing a sigh as his hands moved to his shirt buttons. While a strict diet and rigorous adherence to exercise had removed the excess weight of his youth, he had the body of a middle-aged man. Stretch marks from his weight loss, scars from his early days in the field, a surgical scar from an arthroscopy on his right knee, freckles, a softness around the middle which refused to budge...so lost in his own concerns was he, that at first Mycroft didn’t spare a thought for how James might feel about undressing. Glancing up, he caught the grim look on James’ face as he made to remove his shirt. Mycroft reached out and stilled his hands, causing James to look at his face. “I don’t expect you to be perfect. I most certainly am not. May I?”

 

James nodded, and as Mycroft went to turn off the overhead lights he snapped on one of the bedside lamps. The room felt soft and more intimate, and it relaxed them both. Coming together, they exchanged wry looks and reached for one another’s buttons. “For the record,” Mycroft said, cheeks burning, “I find you wildly attractive.”

 

“Hold that thought,” James told him dryly, moving to shrug off his button-down. He wore a vest top underneath but before he could remove it, Mycroft stopped him again. 

 

“Leave it if you’re more comfortable.” He let his fingers brush over the burn scars on James’ shoulder, trailed his hand down his arm and took his curled fingers in his, heart racing at his daring. He was half afraid James would shut down at this direct acknowledgement of the arm they had both been politely ignoring. “But don’t, I beg you, feel the need to remain clothed on my account.” He flashed his wickedest smile, which he was afraid was awfully tame. 

 

James smiled in response, though, and cleared his throat, “Perhaps just the vest then.”

 

It was easier after that. They undressed slowly, revealing one another with care. Mycroft debated removing his own undershirt in an example to James of how very imperfect his own physique was. Like the coward he was, he left it on, wanting to hide the way his mostly flat stomach wrinkled when he moved, and the constellation of freckles on his skin, his--Mycroft’s mind stuttered to a halt when James wrapped one large, warm hand around him and stroked firmly. “I can see you thinking,” he whispered, “so let me give you something nice to think about.”

 

Before Mycroft could marvel that he hadn’t for once been reprimanded to ‘stop thinking’ as if he could just  _ shut off  _ his brain, James lowered himself awkwardly to his knees on the hotel carpet and ran his hand up Mycroft’s leg. His breath fanned hot and urgent over Mycroft’s straining erection, and then he tasted him, licking at the damp crown of Mycroft’s cock, slipping his tongue under the silky foreskin. The action drew a strangled breath from Mycroft, who gripped at James’ sturdy shoulders, grounding himself desperately. It had been several years since the last time he’d been touched, and suddenly he worried that he wouldn’t last. “Please,” he whispered, “the bed.”

 

James tried to rise on his own, but accepted with silent gratitude when Mycroft offered him a hand. They climbed onto the bed, glancing at one another and then coming together with rising urgency. Mycroft went willingly over onto his back, pulling James over him with hungry arms, and they kissed deeply as James covered him with his larger body. For a long time they simply kissed, hands stroking softly, erections nuzzling intimately. Mycroft felt off-centre, dizzy. He had expected an encounter like this to be quick, rough, exhilarating. Not as soft and sensuous as it was developing. Digging his fingers into the muscle of James’ back, Mycroft closed his eyes, needing a moment to seek control. 

 

James’ hips were moving now, slow, rolling motions which fed the flames licking at Mycroft. He grasped the other man’s hips and ducked his head to mouth at James’ right nipple through the thin, ribbed jersey of his vest. Groaning, James ground harder against him, the hot, slick press of their flesh making Mycroft’s eyes roll back. He sucked harder, wetting the material, feeling the nipple peak sharply under his tongue, and allowed his hands to roam, shoving them greedily under the fragile barrier of cloth to rake his nails lightly up James’ back. James swore, and nearly fell over when he shifted his weight to his good arm. He used his left hand to tip Mycroft’s face up and pressed their mouths hotly together, plundering Mycroft’s mouth with a searing kiss.

 

Mycroft responded to him eagerly, hands clutching greedily, one leg going up to wind around James’ hips. Moving together, they chased the pleasure which had been building, and Mycroft shattered, crying out softly into James’ mouth, which sent the other man into his own helpless orgasm. Collapsing together, they’d lain in a tangle of sweaty, sated limbs, chests heaving, hearts thundering. Finally James seemed to realize he was pinning Mycroft to the mattress beneath his weight, and he rolled onto his side and from there onto his back, bringing a willing Mycroft with him. Feeling oddly peaceful, Mycroft had laid his arm across James’ middle and let his head rest on the other man’s shoulder, smiling at the thud of the heart beneath his ear. 

 

They’d drifted to sleep, Mycroft remembered, only to wake several hours later within minutes of one another. Without speaking, he had kissed his way down James’ body, pushing the shirt up in the dark and lavishing his lips, teeth and tongue on the broad torso he exposed. James had allowed it, putting his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and one twining through Mycroft’s wildly disordered hair. He’d swallowed a shout when Mycroft swallowed him down, and barely had he caught his breath when he pulled at Mycroft, unable to use one arm, but incredibly strong nonetheless. Mycroft willingly helped him muscle him into place where he wanted him. Thrilled at the display of power and desire, Mycroft had submitted willingly to straddling him, arching into the hot grasp of James’ palm as he stroked him. Just as Mycroft came, writhing, James had surged up and caught his mouth in a kiss, stealing his breath.

 

Falling asleep once more, a larger body wrapped around his, a sated smile on his face, Mycroft had felt a delicious glow of happiness which carried him off to sleep on dreams of all the ways they could bring one another to ecstasy. Assuming they could both rise to the occasion a third time, Mycroft had definite plans about how he’d like to spend the morning, and none of them had involved parting so soon.

 

Now, in the cold light of dawn, he shifted on the leather car seat and brought his body and his mind under control. It wasn’t the time for daydreams, or personal happiness, but rather for preparing to resume his persona as the Ice Man. Time enough to let his icy exterior melt if James actually called him for a future assignation. Before he could let the uncertainty of whether that might happen bother him, his mobile pinged. Mycroft suppressed a smile as he read the message.

 

**First and only text. Sorry pumpkin time came before you had another chance to. Until next month. J**

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More than a year has passed since James took a chance at John's wedding. The connection he began with Mycroft has endured, but may not be as strong as he wishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any formatting issues, I'm uploading this from my phone and god knows what liberties it is taking.
> 
> Many heartfelt thanks to siriusblue for their beta read and lovely comments on this chapter. My confidence in my ability to write difficult emotions between these two very difficult men was shaken, but Sirius built it right back up again. All mistakes are firmly my own. 
> 
> Please note the trigger warning for depression, isolation and a brief (and not graphic) depiction of animal death.

_The Yorkshire Dales_

 

A heavy rain had fallen that morning, but the skies cleared after a few hours, and now the sun shone brightly, warming the brisk day. Warmly bundled in all-weather boots, canvas trousers and a sheepskin lined jacket, James stood on a peak, staring out across the brilliantly green grass crisscrossed by the darker green of trees and hedges, and the gray scars of rambling field-stone walls. It was a familiar, grounding sight, and the bracing air and empty spaces surrounding him made him breathe easier despite the exertion of his recent hike.

Long walks through the countryside were more arduous than than they had once been, but James was stubborn, and refused to let his leg hold him back. His physical therapist had been enthusiastic about his walks, as long as he “listened to his body.” James snorted. Not much else to listen to, unless it was his house manager, who spent the majority of her time in the basement kitchens, or in her office. There was the head man on the estate, who saw to the day to day running of the sheep farm, but he was even more laconic than James, and the only interests of their which intersected were sheep and guns. Of course there were his twice weekly visits to his psychiatrist, but James found it impossible to share anything relevant there.

His only outlet these days consisted of irregular email correspondence with John, the occasional cheeky phone call from Murray, and his monthly...meetings with Mycroft.

At the thought of Mycroft, James felt depression tug at him, but instead of giving in, he unclipped his water bottle from his light daypack and took a swig, before clipping it into place. Gripping the tall hawthorn walking stick which had been his father’s and grandfather’s before him, James set off carefully down the hill. He couldn’t think of Mycroft without experiencing a longing which indicated how very much the other man had come to mean to him, and when he considered the past year, James realized how deeply their lives had become entwined.

 _But I want more,_ James thought, placing his boots with care. He’d fallen out here a few winters ago and badly twisted his knee. He might have frozen to death in the first freeze of the season if not for his survival training and the intervention of a farmer in search of a stray sheep. For years after his professional career had fallen apart and scandal and ruin had dogged his steps, death had often seemed like a viable route. Hell, he’d kept his service pistol against all regulations, comforted by the knowledge that it was there if he needed a quick escape. Even as much as five years ago he’d considered letting Jonathan Small have his revenge against him. Why resist when the world would be better off without you? When the universe so clearly wanted to rid itself of the burden which was James Sholto?

Now though, he found himself with a thirst for more out of life than the narrow confines of his land and his solitude. Mycroft had awakened a desire for companionship, deep conversation...for more human connection than he’d permitted himself in years. It wasn’t only the physical aspect, though James hungered for that to a startling degree. Each time he saw Mycroft his need for him not only didn’t lessen, it increased. At first, once a month had been enough; in fact James had been grateful he only had to endure the city for such a short time. But for months he’d found himself wanting to call Mycroft, tell him he would be in London every two weeks instead of four. More than that, he wanted Mycroft to reach out for him, for more of his time. Maybe he would express an interest in getting to know James better and even ask to come see his home.

The idea of an entire weekend--dare he even hope for a week?--was alarming, but in the best of ways. It felt supremely greedy to want more, but it was an undeniable fact that he wanted just that. He didn't know how to ask though. How to broach the subject of a relationship when they'd started off as something purely physical. Something needed to happen which would spur them onto the next step.

Then in August James had had to call off his planned visit due to a minor surgery on his arm. Mycroft had emailed back his sympathy at the two days he would spend in hospital and wished him the best. No indication that he would miss James, or that he wanted to come see him while in hospital; there was no suggestion that they rearrange their planned assignation. The stretch of time in between their overnight at Claridge’s in July, and the time they would meet in September had loomed impossibly large. James wondered how he would fill the empty time. Naturally he had his duties, his work, the running of the Sholto lands, but his leisure time hung empty.

His hopes of going into London early in the month had been dashed when Mycroft responded that not only was he not available that weekend, but circumstances would have him travelling most of the month. James called him, but was disheartened when the ringing went unanswered. It took Mycroft three days to respond, and when he did it was by text. Text, of all bloody things. Brief, curt and to the point.

**Unavoidably abroad until early October. My apologies.**

James had the uncomfortable feeling that Mycroft was putting distance between them.

 

\----------------------------

_The Cotswalds_

Considering he’d seen actual combat and survived a murder attempt, James was ridiculously nervous as he waited in the hotel bar for his dinner companion. Deciding that waiting around on Mycroft like a lovesick puppy was beneath his dignity, and that rattling around the Grange like a Brontë heroine was doing nothing for his depression, James had made the surprisingly terrifying decision to broaden his horizons.

“James?” At the sound of the inquiring voice, James looked up from his scarcely touched whisky and smiled, standing.

“Phillip,” he said with pleasure, nerves easing at the sight of the smiling greenish eyes under the familiar mop of russet-streaked dark curls. It had been years since they’d seen one another, and Phillip Singh’s hair was threaded now with gray, but the distance seemed to fall away as they met with a clasping of hands and a comradely arm around the shoulders. Sitting, James felt himself relax incrementally. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, this socializing business.

“Sorry to drag you all this way,” Phillip was saying, picking up the drinks menu. “I’ll only be here for another two days before I fly back to the Hague. At least I didn’t make you come all the way to Cardiff.”

“It’s no trouble,” James assured him, “The hotel is lovely and it does me good to get out of the house. Or so my therapist assures me,” he joked awkwardly.

Phillip’s smile was warm, “It does me good to see you out and about once more, old fellow. It’s been far too many years.” He ordered a mulled wine from the waiter, and turned toward James, “This place is gorgeous, you chose well. I’ve left my things at registration to come straight here.” He squeezed James’ arm with strong fingers, “I was eager to see you.”

Flustered and pleased, James strove for a relaxed expression. Changing the subject, he brought up John’s wedding from the previous year, and they caught one another up on old Army comrades and fell to talking about old times.

\---------------------------------

October came in like a lion; icy gales howled about the old stone and brick walls of Houghland Grange, and its inhabitants huddled indoors as much as possible. James, wrapped to the eyeballs in his warmest layers, fought his way to the outbuildings where the sheep were sheltered, and spent a good hour trading laconic remarks with his head man, Bell, simply to keep from going stir-crazy. His house manager, Mrs Gillie, had been trapped in town and he was alone in the house. Once, it would have been his ideal state, now it itched at him like a cheap synthetic wool.

Banging about the draughty kitchen heating a tin of soup, James admitted to himself that it wasn’t enough any more. No longer did his isolation bring him comfort and security. Rather, it was suffocating him. Mycroft had brought air and sunlight back into his life, given him interests and goals outside of getting through each day. Staring into his lackluster soup, James decided to do something about it. Three days later, when the storm blew itself out and the roads were cleared, James drove into the village to fetch Mrs Gillie, and load up on more supplies.

“I’ll be going into London next week,” he told her, parking outside the kitchen door and getting out to help unload the items which weren’t being delivered. “Might be gone longer than usual, don’t know.”

“We’ll carry on,” she said comfortably.

\--------------------------------------------------

 

Their usual routine would involve a polite phone call to inform Mycroft that he had arrived (although James had long ago divined that the other man had access to surveillance facilities which no doubt notified him the moment his Land Rover crossed into London proper). Mycroft would arrive as his time permitted, and they would enjoy dinner, or tea or maybe just a civilised drink in the Art Deco bar before retiring to his room. As delicious as sex between them was, neither felt compelled to rush into bed. James enjoyed Mycroft’s company and conversation just as keenly as he did tumbling in the sheets with him. He had always assumed that Mycroft felt the same, seeming to relax in his presence rather than hold himself aloof.

Perhaps he’d been wrong, however, and he’d never been more than a diversion for Mycroft; one which had lost its appeal? More than once their time together had been curtailed by an emergency which pulled Mycroft from the abandoned languor of the tangled bedsheets and into his work persona with startling brutality. On one or two rare occasions they had been able to extend their one night into two...but James now realized that had been early on in their affair and had happened only the few times.

Perhaps Mycroft had been pulling away far before he realized it.

This evening James couldn’t countenance the idea of sitting in public--or Claridge’s version of it, anyway--and trying to sustain normal conversation when his stomach was uneasy and his thoughts kept turning to why Mycroft had been so distant in the last few months. A small, uncertain part of him couldn’t help but wonder if he’d grown too dependent and Mycroft was trying to cool things off. But then he’d recall the last time they came together, and his mind would settle again, only for the insidious thoughts to return. He was haunted by a man who had disappeared, yet who refused to remain gone.

A glass of brandy by the fireplace in his suite helped compose his nerves somewhat, and James stared into the flames, awaiting Mycroft’s knock on the door. It was time for a discussion of just what this was and where it was going. James knew his own wants on the subject, but he was tired of guessing at Mycroft’s intentions. Painful as the conversation might be, he wouldn’t flinch from it.

Easier to promise to oneself than to act on, he discovered a quarter of an hour later, when Mycroft’s expected tap sounded and he rose to let him in. Once the door was closed they embraced, but James--uneasy about revealing his feelings--felt hesitant to kiss Mycroft, who seemed to take his cue from him. There occurred an awkward shuffle at the door, ending in patting one another’s shoulders and muttering a half-hearted greeting. Not a very auspicious beginning, James felt, but he persevered. “Brandy?”

“Please,” Mycroft accepted, and followed him toward the intimate seating in front of the fireplace. He accepted his glass and only then did they both seem to realize that he still wore his coat and hat and had his umbrella in his hand. Apologizing, James set their glasses aside and took Mycroft’s umbrella and hat. He hung them neatly on the mahogany hatstand in the small foyer and then turned to take Mycroft’s coat, flushing when the other man insisted on hanging it himself. That his arm was bothering him in the cold must be obvious then. Stoically, James took up his glass and seated himself, refusing to massage his forearm. Mycroft sipped, “How have you been?’

Restless, unable to indulge in small talk, but too anxious to broach the subject directly, James grunted, “We need to talk.”

Mycroft stilled. “Ah.” He put down his glass with a precise click and steepled his fingers, looking coolly over them at James. “Do we?’

 

\---------------------------------

 

When a knock sounded at the flat door at a quarter to seven, John expected maybe Mrs Hudson with an armful of baked goods, or Lestrade come to pull them in on a case. It was too late for clients, generally, although they’d gotten a knock up at all hours before, so he assumed it would be someone they knew.

What he didn’t expect was for it to be someone he knew very well. “James?” He asked in mild shock, stunned to see the man--whom he had thought safely immured in Yorkshire--standing on the other side of the door, face wan. “What are you--come in.”

James came in, trying for a smile. John had seen worse, but he felt a crinkle of unquiet worry expand. He knew that look, the look of a man who’d received a devastating personal blow and was worried he wouldn’t be able to stand it. “Didn’t know you were in town,” John ventured cautiously, once his offer of a drink had been accepted and they were seated in the lounge. The flat was cozy with a fire burning and the curtains drawn; John had a chicken stew simmering fragrantly away and there was bread baking. He’d come straight home from the clinic where he worked part-time to get the evening meal ready, Sherlock had gone to watch Rosie’s ballet class and then fetch her home for the weekend. It was meant to be the start of a nice, quiet family time.

Nowhere had John factored in being confronted with his morose former commander, but he certainly wasn’t going to turn him out in the cold--either figuratively or literally. All he could do was be receptive if he wanted to talk.

Which it appeared he didn’t want to. “Ending a...business relationship,” James had grunted in response to John’s question, then brooded into the flames. John ventured a few conversational sallies but eventually gave up and they sat in silence, which was only broken when Sherlock and Rosie arrived home. Rosie was a bundle of high-spirited talk and carried them over the most awkward bits, but James only gave her a half-hearted smile and seemed to withdraw further. Over his downcast head John and Sherlock had a brief, silent conversation and John shrugged. Sherlock rolled his eyes and when John’s friendly offer to join them for dinner seemed to paralyze James with a desire to say no without appearing rude, Sherlock stepped in. “Don’t be tiresome, John. Clearly the Major is pressed for time. He has a train to catch, isn’t that right?”

Seizing on it gratefully, James unironically thanked them for a lovely visit and departed, leaving John more confused than ever. “What…” but Sherlock shook his head, looking significantly at their daughter, who was sprawled on the rug with her puzzles. _After bedtime,_ he mouthed, and John supposed he’d just have to wait in the dark until then. As always, Sherlock seemed to know all about everything, even if the knowing was a mystery.

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

_November_

One of the sheep dogs had been run over. Yuriy, one of the labourers, had found him in the lane on his way in to the farm. He’d brought him in, wrapped in his own threadbare coat, face sorrowful. The dog was too far gone to save, as they discovered. His injuries were too grievous, and he was barely hanging on, making pitiful whimpering noises almost too faint to hear, whenever they moved him.

Tenderly, Yuriy laid him down, barely passing a weathered hand over the dog’s head. He spoke in a low tone to the labouring dog, but in Russian, and James could only assume he was trying to reassure the animal he wasn’t alone. Incredibly, he felt tears sting his eyes. Turning away, he gruffly informed Yuriy he’d be back, before he hurried as fast as his aching leg would allow him. Grimly, he fetched his pistol, and stumped back to the outbuilding.

\-------------------

The sun had set and the labourers had gone when James walked out into the muddy farmyard, glass of whisky in hand. Torch on, he walked around behind the barn where the farm dogs had always been buried. His arm hadn’t allowed him to dig the grave, so Yuriy had taken care of it, coming to him when he was done to ask if James wanted to be there when he lowered him in. Gruffly James had waved him away, turning back to his accounts with an irritable grunt.

Now, however, alone, he allowed himself to feel the sorrow of losing the animal. If the dog had had a name, he’d never known it. His father--a very old-school authoritarian--had not allowed softness when it came to the animals that worked the farm. There was no growing attached, they were there to serve a purpose and that was all. It was all James had ever known and he’d not questioned it. For some reason he was now sorrowful at the loss of the dog, which was clearly ridiculous. He’d had no personal attachment to it. He’d witnessed--he’d caused--more heinous deaths in far greater number, and yet all day his throat had been tight with unexpressed emotion.

Rounding the corner of the barn, James jerked in shock when he spied another person already there. Alarm ripped through him, until his wavering torch beam landed on Yuriy’s apologetic face. “What are you still doing here?” he barked, surprise and shame making him aggressive.

“Sorry, boss,” the young man replied, tugging off his beanie cap and rubbing a hand through his overgrown hair. “I just...wanted to say a goodbye. I didn’t think anyone would mind.”

“You surprised me,” James said briefly, fingers tight around the glass in his hand. He hesitated. “Thank you for seeing to his burying.”

 _“Pozhaluysta,”_ Yuriy replied softly, shifting from foot to foot. His eyes were averted, and a momentary feeling of embarrassment swept over James, who assumed he didn’t want to look directly at his disfigured face. Then he realized he still had the beam of light directed at Yuriy's face and twitched it away with a muttered apology.

They stood for a moment in awkward silence before James cleared his throat. “I was just going to have a drink...can I interest you?” Appalled that the offer had come from him, he blurted, “I’m sorry, it’s after hours, I’m sure you’re tired and want to get…” he trailed off, not home, the boy probably had no home, just a rented room. “...erm, to your dinner. You needn’t consider yourself obligated to keep this old man company. I’m--you can go. Thank you. See you tomorrow.” Although probably not, as he rarely interacted with the hired workers unless need be.

“Please?” Yuriy sounded bewildered. Obviously his grasp of English wasn’t strong enough to follow the flood of babbling.

“I was offering you a drink,” James held out his glass in illustration. “But if you’re tired--”

“No, please,” Yuriy responded, sounding surprised and pleased. Flattered? “I am very much appreciating this.”

So it was that somehow James found himself leading the boy--young man, really--towards the house. The house he never entertained in and which rarely saw visitors. Odd that for the first time in over a year someone other than the household staff would be inside and it would be this Russian immigrant in his muddy boots, come to share a drink in memory of a dog James had scarcely known. They both shed their work boots in the little mudroom off the kitchen door and in their socked feet crossed the old stone-floor kitchen to the bleached wood table near the Aga. “Sit,” James said shortly, but not, he hoped, unkindly. Returning a few minutes later with the bottle of whisky, he set it on the table and fetched another glass.

The two men sat in companionable silence, sipping their drinks. Yuriy raised his glass after a moment, _“V pamyat' o Sergei.”_

“Sergei?” Asked James, who had only understood the name.

Yuriy looked abashed, “Sorry, boss...I call him this. It means,” he struggled a minute, then fumbled into an explanation which they finally untangled to mean shepherd. “He had not a name, I call him this because a dog should always have a name.”

“It’s...fine. It’s a good name.” James looked into the depths of his drink, “To Sergei.”

They drank, glancing at one another. He was struck by the soft depths of Yuriy’s dark hazel eyes, and the steady regard of the other man. Confusingly, it felt like a personal interest. If he’d been any other man, he might have assumed it was sexual interest.

They finished their drinks and James’ hand hovered over the bottle. His instinct was to offer another; he hesitated only because this man was his employee and he didn’t want him to feel obligated. Yuriy saw the aborted gesture and while he said nothing, his expression was gentle and encouraging. James wrapped his good hand around the bottle, “Would you care for another?”

“Thank you very much,” Yuriy said, holding out his glass and holding James’ eyes. The moment stretched out, grew tense. James’ hand shook slightly as he poured, and it was with gratitude that he lowered the bottle. “You are a very kind man, but lonely I think.”

Rather than spill his whisky, James set his glass down abruptly. Such a direct and personal comment had shaken him. “I…”

“You sit alone in your house and you talk to no one. Do you not need people?” Despite the baldness of the words, there was no condemnation or judgement in the words.

“I’m used to being alone,” James evaded.

“I’m alone, but only because I move here where I know no one. You, you lived here all your life and you choose to be alone.” Yuriy turned his glass in his hands, “But not because you want this.”

“No,” James said heavily after a thin moment, “But I don’t have any choice.”

Yuriy’s look was politely disbelieving.

“There was someone,” James offered, wondering if he’d lost his mind. “But he didn’t want…” _Me,_ he thought, and shied away from it, as he had for nearly a month.

“He is maybe crazy?”

James laughed, startled; it was a damp sound, but genuine. He swiped at the back of his nose with his hand, horrified at his own lack of manners, but not particularly caring. Longing for Mycroft, which had been squashed down inside a dark cellar in his mind for weeks, rose up sharply, as haunting as any ghost. “He is maybe crazy,” he agreed, and unbelievably managed a smile. Capping the bottle, he pushed his untouched glass aside. “Come, finish your drink and I’ll give you a ride home. It’s getting late.”

Tipping his drink to his lips, Yuriy let his eyes linger on James for a beat too long. He knew that if he gave the sign, there was every chance he could have this warm young man in his bed for one night. But that’s all it would be. One night of closeness and then Yuriy would move on, because staying on once they’d crossed that invisible border would be impossible. One night to ease his heartache and loneliness and then he’d be left even more uneasy than before. And in the end, what would it accomplish? Mycroft would still be lost to him.

 

\-------------------------------------

 

_Christmas_  
_London_

 

Why on earth did he continue to allow his fondness for John Watson to sway him to attend social events he otherwise would avoid like the actual plague? Shifting uneasily from foot to foot, James held onto his untouched mulled wine and surveyed the small, noisy party. 221B was crammed with many of the same people who had attended John and Sherlock’s wedding, so at least most of the faces were familiar to him, even if he hadn’t exchanged more than the barest of civilities with them.

The happy couple’s elderly landlady had startled him deeply by making a fuss over him when he arrived, kissing his cheek and greeting him boisterously, as if actually glad for his presence. John too, had seemed very glad to see him, giving him a brisk hug and drawing him into the room, pressing a drink in his hand and thanking him for making the journey. Sherlock, who never did as James expected, had also seemed delighted to see him.

Although they looked nothing alike, seeing Sherlock made James think of Mycroft (whom he had been very determinedly not thinking about for two months). The only reason he’d agreed to attend was that during the phone call to invite him, John had casually mentioned that the older Holmes wouldn’t be there. James might like, as his therapist had charged, wallowing in his own self-created misery, but even he drew the line at voluntarily facing the man who had done the impossible. Resurrected his disused heart and then broken it. Even masochism had its limits.

In a bid to relax, he moved to lean against the wall next to the fireplace, trying to look as if he were having a good time. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. He wasn’t having a terrible time, but as usual he felt out of place, the spectre at the feast. Pinning a smile on his face, James hid behind his paper cup emblazoned with Santa-hat-wearing reindeer and wondered if he could sidle up to the groaning buffet of food without getting in the way of any of the more festive party-goers. He’d not felt like lunch on the train, and by the time he checked into his hotel (he couldn’t face Claridge’s again) it was time to get ready for the party. Feeling more hungry than he was reluctant to chance being forced into jolly conversation, James had just placed his cup on the mantel when he chanced to look up and watch as the flat door opened and in walked Mycroft, looking tired yet impeccable, in a navy pinstripe three piece and dark red tie.

Bottom falling out of his stomach, James instinctively froze, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Christ, what was Mycroft doing here? Maybe if he timed it just right he could slide out the door behind Mycroft’s back as he turned to give his outerwear to his brother. Halfway across the room, heart beating hollowly, James was horrified to see Sherlock look at him over Mycroft’s shoulder and lock eyes. Smiling with slight regret, Sherlock raised his voice, “Ah, Major Sholto, there you are! You remember my brother, Mycroft, don’t you?”

Halted in his pathetic attempt to flee, James watched as Mycroft inevitably turned toward him. Up close he looked even more tired than he had seemed from across the room. His normally pale complexion was milky, making the lavender shadows under his hooded eyes stand out. There was a fraught moment in which they stared at one another, caught out; James was unprepared for the flare of soft anxiety in Mycroft’s eyes, and it left him off-footed. What right did Mycroft have to look tired or tortured or wounded?

“Of course,” James said through stiff lips, giving Mycroft a clipped nod. He switched his look to Sherlock, burning with resentment. He didn’t know what game Sherlock was playing at, but he’d clearly orchestrated this for some purpose. “Sorry to dash, but I’ve got an emergency at home. Extend my regrets to John, won’t you?” Before either of the men could react--and entirely forgetting his outerwear--James left through the flat door with as much dignity as he could manage, aware that his limp was more noticeable than ever.

There was a commotion behind him, a flurry of protests, an undignified squawk, and James turned in time to see Sherlock shove Mycroft out onto the landing and shut the door abruptly. There was the ominous sound of the bolt shooting home, despite which Mycroft made an attempt to open the door. Working his jaw, James turned his back on him and headed for the stairs, stumbling slightly in his haste.

“No need to run away,” Mycroft sniped from behind him, voice sharp. “I shan’t chase you anymore.” His tone dripped bitterness. “Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson.”

James stopped cold, two steps down, and turned toward Mycroft, temper mounting swiftly, “What lesson is that? To keep to one night stands before anyone falls in love?” Mycroft drew in a sharp breath, but James barreled on, too heartbroken, too weary, too damned angry to stop. “No need to give me another of your smooth speeches before you disappear, I received the message loud and clear last time--my inconvenient emotions and I won’t bother you again. This time I’m leaving.”

He’d only made it down a few steps before he heard Mycroft stomping after him and instinctively turned, ready for an attack. Mycroft practically flew down the steps, face twisted with strong emotions. Clearly unprepared for James to stop, he nearly slammed into him, correcting at the last minute with a complete lack of his habitual grace or composure. His knuckles were white on the bannister, and his breathing came harshly, _“You_ left me!” If James hadn’t known better, he would have thought Mycroft had tears in his eyes.

Gobsmacked, James gaped at him for a minute before his rage and hurt came rushing back. He thought of the last several miserable, lonely months, the months of forlorn uncertainty before that, “I didn’t leave you, Mycroft! I was there in that hotel room when you told me our time had come to an end and wished me luck in the future and then walked out as cold as the bloody machine you are!”

Mycroft staggered, face bleached pale, “I didn’t--I didn’t leave you, I walked out with dignity when you sat me down for your little ‘talk.’” His chin jerked, pride radiating from every stiff line of his body, “I have some dignity you know. I wasn’t going to sit there and listen to you fumble to let me down gently so you could run back to your lover.”

“Wha-what lover?” James demanded, shocked and confused.

“Phillip Singh,” Mycroft spat, face contorted, “Early October, that cosy hotel in the Cotswalds. You spent hours at dinner with him, drinks in the bar after, and then he came back to your room and _didn’t leave until nearly three in the morning!”_

“What?” James asked stupidly, “How could you possibly know--” As he spoke the guilt implicit in those words hit him and he almost winced. Almost. Damn it, he wasn’t to blame here!

“Yes,” Mycroft said silkily, lines tight around his eyes and mouth, “I was out of the country but I missed you, fool that I am, and I couldn’t help but check in. It was quite the nasty little shock when I saw you were meeting with your lover whilst I was unavailable.” He sneered, deadly cold, “Shocking, but educational.”

“You were _spying_ on me?” James almost snorted with outrage, “what in the bloody hell, Mycroft? I know it’s your job--or at least I suppose it is, it’s not as if you’ve ever shared _anything_ personal with me in all the time we spent together--but is that how you treat people in your life? As suspects? Something to be spied on and followed?”

“Yes!” Mycroft almost howled, more out of control than James had ever imagined seeing him. “It’s my curse to care more for everyone in my life than they care for me and all I can do is watch them....” fight suddenly leaving him, he hung his head tiredly, wiped out, “...and watch them leave me. Everyone.” He swallowed, a painfully choked sound, “Always.”

James was struck dumb; ears ringing, he stared at Mycroft and for several minutes there was a breathless feeling of silent expectation in the stairwell. Turning fully to Mycroft, he stepped up the stairs awkwardly until he was one step below the other man. He waited until Mycroft looked up, eyes red, face strained. “I was falling for you,” he said rawly, throat trying to close against the humiliating truth. “I wanted more, and I could feel you pulling away. Suddenly you were never available--you cancelled plans--and I thought--I thought, if I can see him, explain what I want...well, you’d either laugh in my face or tell me you felt it too.” Suddenly exhausted, he dropped onto the step and leaned against the wall, “I was tired of being afraid, thought for once I’d risk my heart.”

All that could be heard for a long moment was Mycroft’s laboured breathing, and then--then he sighed, shaky and tremulous, and lowered himself gingerly to sit next to James. “What about Singh?”

“We’re not lovers,” James told him simply, turning his head to look at Mycroft steadily, though the colour rose to his face to be talking so openly about his emotions. He’d practically told Mycroft he loved him, and Mycroft hadn’t exactly rushed in with a declaration. “He’s an old friend from my Army days that I reached out to. We spent the night catching up and talking over old times--that’s all it was. That’s all it ever was going to be. I was feeling lonely, and tired of waiting around for you to be free to see me.” He watched Mycroft wince, and carried on, “I came to London that day to ask you if you were willing to have a relationship with me--a real one--not just meeting for sex when time permitted.”

Mycroft, who had been sitting with his feet on the step below him, dropped his face to his knees, wrapping his arms around his shins and drew in a damp, ragged breath. There was a sob riding it’s coattails, and James felt his outrage collapse and the last of his bitterness with it. Putting his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, he leaned in and spoke softly in his ear, “Is that something you’d want?”

Mycroft nodded, throat working audibly.

“Can you look at me?” James asked tenderly, brushing a loose strand of hair back from Mycroft’s high forehead. His skin was flushed, warm, and when he raised his face, his cheeks were damp. James thought it was perhaps the most honest he’d ever seen Mycroft. “Do you believe me that there wasn’t anything between Phillip and I?”

“Yes,” Mycroft’s voice was husky, and he cleared his throat, “I...push people away. I always have, since I was young. I suppose a therapist would say it’s a defense mechanism, but for so long it was all I had to protect me, staying distant.”

“So I wasn’t imagining it that you were suddenly in the wind whenever I’d call?”

Shamefaced, Mycroft shook his head. “I sensed that you were getting restless,” he confessed softly, laying his cheek on his crossed arms and letting his eyes roam James’ face as if he was hungry for the sight of him. “...I thought it meant you were tired of me. Of what I could offer.”

“You’re more than what you can ‘offer,’ Mycroft,” he said, heart clenching. With a bit of difficulty he pulled his feet up onto the step, crossed his arms on his knees and rested his own cheek on his arms. They stared at one another, caught in a soft moment. “I’ve--I’m no prize. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted something--” someone “--better.”

“I don’t think either of us is exempt from feelings of inadequacy and doubt,” Mycroft acknowledged, working his right hand free from the nest he’d created for himself and reaching out tentatively for James’ useless left hand. He watched as Mycroft folded it in his fingers.

“It’s never bothered you, has it?” His infirmity. The visible proof of his fallibility. This defect in a once proud, well-oiled machine. _Maybe we're both machines,_ James realized, _it's all we've had to protect us for years._

“No.”

Eyes on one another, a bit shy, but hopeful, they sat in silence, hands linked. “Where do we go from here?”

“My place?” Mycroft smiled a bit timidly.

James let laughter warm his face, and was glad to see Mycroft relax further. “Much as I’d love to,” he began, and watched the happiness recede from Mycroft’s eyes, “I think maybe we’ve moved too fast from the beginning.”

“...oh.”

James squeezed his hand as tightly as his cursed fingers would let him, “I want to build something good with you, Mycroft,” he told him awkwardly, “something to last. I think...maybe we should get to know one another.” For the first time he looked away, “Build some trust. Start fresh.”

“So...dating?” Both his face and his tone were hard to get a bead on.

James refused to back down. “Yeah.”

Mycroft sat up straighter, pulling out his handkerchief and blotting his face, “Where would you like to go, James? Dinner...the opera...the south of France?” He gave a little sly sideways smile that warmed James all the way to the core.

He laughed appreciatively, “Maybe save that for the second date,” he dared to tease, and delighted in the sparkle that entered Mycroft’s eyes. “Not the opera,” he said frankly, “I hate it--bunch of bellowing in impractical costumes.”

“Philistine,” Mycroft muttered, but he was smiling again. “Dinner someplace we can talk? Not to brag, but I can get us into any restaurant in the city.”

“I’d like a good steak, some better whisky, and the chance to talk,” James agreed, breathing more easily. He knew it wasn’t going to be this easy--knew there would be flashes of resentment, of guilt, moments of jealousy, perhaps, and doubt. But he also thought Mycroft was worth it. Maybe...maybe even he was worth it?

Huh. Something to think about.

“I think that can be arranged.” Mycroft cleared his throat delicately, smoothing his handkerchief over his knees. “Would, would tonight be too soon?”

“Probably,” James admitted after a minute. He ducked his head, caught Mycroft’s eyes, “Not because I don’t want to, but because we’re both so full of emotion right now--don’t know about you, but I’m bloody exhausted.”

Mycroft heaved a weary sigh, as if just now realizing how tired he was. “I haven’t slept well in weeks,” he admitted, abashed, “I’m afraid I’ve been unforgivably short with my staff. Perhaps a night to sleep and take a step back would be in order.”

“Not too far back,” James cautioned, hand tightening anxiously around Mycroft’s long fingers, “Don’t--don’t change your mind. Please.”

Mycroft’s eyes flashed with conviction, “I won’t lie, this is all going to be terrifying for me...but, you’re worth it, James.”

Softening, he leaned in and let his lips touch Mycroft’s. They kissed softly, breathing low and a little unevenly. Finally James pulled back just a bit, and gave him an off-center smile, “I wouldn’t say no to a ride to my hotel, if you’re so inclined. Especially as my coat and things are locked in the flat.”

“As are mine,” Mycroft said in annoyance, flinging a dark look over his shoulder at the door. Standing, he offered his hand to James, helping him rise to his feet. “A moment.” Knocking on the door, he raised his voice, “Sherlock?”

There was no answer, and in listening to see if there might be, James realized for the first time how terribly quiet the flat was compared to the cheerful buzz of before. His face flamed as he imagined them all pressed to the other side of the door, all ears.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said again, more sternly, “I know you are perfectly capable of hearing me. Open the door, please.”

The door popped open a crack, and Sherlock’s face appeared. He scanned them both quickly with his unsettling eyes and then looked back at his brother, “What’s the password?”

“Sherlock.”

“Nope, not it.”

_"Sherlock."_

“Christ, Sherlock, let them in,” John’s exasperated voice could be heard from somewhere behind his husband. James couldn’t help but note that John sounded just a bit amused, despite his fussing.

Sherlock rolled his eyes with great drama and swung open the door, revealing a room full of people who had all obviously overheard most of the initial shouting, and were now desperately trying, in as discreet and British a way as possible, to pretend that everything was fine. Their shifty eyes and total silence rather gave the game away.

James felt a twinge of reluctant amusement, even as his cheeks warmed. “Er, my coat,” he murmured, and was relieved when John fetched it, chattering a bit nervously the whole while.

Accepting their wraps, Mycroft gave his brother a steady look. Sherlock smiled mildly at him, “Lovely to see you both,” he said sweetly.

“You are a menace,” Mycroft intoned, but if anything James rather thought he was touched. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock, John.”

Exchanging greetings, the two of them raised an abashed hand toward the spectators and melted down the stairs as quickly as possible. “God, that was awkward,” James expostulated, letting out a pent up breath. He was suddenly struck by amusement, thinking of them all sitting up there, fixed in place, unable to avoid hearing the two of them carrying on like fishwives out on the landing.

Mycroft seemed to catch a bit of his amusement and his lips twitched. “Do not develop a sense of humour about this, James. I forbid it. My brother must be soundly punished.”

“Oh I don’t know,” James said easily, “he did us a favour.”

“Heaven forfend he hear you say that. He’s insufferable enough as it is.”

“Secret’s safe with me,” James gave Mycroft a little sideways smile as a dark car glided up to the kerb. He let the other man open the rear door for him and sat inside. Rather than make him scoot awkwardly over, Mycroft walked around the back of the car and slipped in on the other side. “Where are you staying?”

“The Dorchester.” James put his hand on the seat between them and Mycroft took it with gratifying swiftness. Most of the ride passed in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. With regret James saw them approaching the hotel. “Tomorrow?”

Mycroft slid closer, framing James’ jaw in one palm, “It’s Christmas,” he reminded him, asking with his eyes for a kiss.

James closed the distance between him, feeling his heart beat faster as their lips touched. For all his good intentions, he longed for nothing more than to invite Mycroft upstairs and spend the night with him. _What could be the harm,_ whispered his weak heart. He reminded himself of their lack of communication and the misunderstandings which had arisen because they’d moved too fast and neither of them had been willing to slow down and talk. “So it is,” he agreed, running his thumb lightly over Mycroft’s sensitive lower lip and watching with pleasure as his pupils dilated. “I’m told they do a very nice Christmas lunch...perhaps you’d join me?” he stopped, struck by a thought, “Sorry,” he amended wryly, “I forgot you have a family, like most normal people.”

“My family is...hardly normal,” Mycroft said. “I’ve been in a foul mood and I couldn’t bear the thought of jolly family festivities. I told my parents I’d be out of the country on business. Sherlock and John rather kindly offered me an invite to join them, but I didn’t want to inflict myself on their holiday.” He rubbed James’ knuckles with the pad of his thumb, “I was going to hole up at my home and avoid all mentions of Christmas. But spending the time with you...that sounds heavenly, frankly.”

“It’s a date then,” James said somewhat breathlessly, reaching reluctantly for the door handle. He slid one leg out and gave Mycroft a regretful smile, “Is eleven too early?”

“I can hardly wait,” Mycroft promised, following him to the edge of the seat and smiling up at him, both hands clasped around James’. “I confess...I hate to let you go, lest I wake up in the morning and discover this is all a dream--or worse still, that you’ve changed your mind.”

“Never a fear of that,” James assured him, bending to bestow one last kiss. He closed his eyes, murmured, “Until tomorrow…”

 

\-----------------------------------------------

_Six month later_  
_Yorkshire_

 

James woke slowly, coming to wakefulness in soft stages. Before he opened his eyes he lay quietly, feeling the soft, rumpled warmth of his bedding, the plush ease of his down pillow cradling his head. Through his closed lids he was aware of the late morning sun trying to send prying fingers into the dim fastness of his bedroom. With his eyes still closed, his hearing seemed to be slightly more acute; instead of the steady breathing of his sleeping companion, he detected a faster, shallower pattern, indicating wakefulness.

Cracking open an eye, he smiled to see Mycroft with his back to him, shoulders hunched to hide the mobile he was tapping soundlessly at. “Hey now,” he growled playfully, rolling over and snaring him in his arms, “what are you about here? I thought this was supposed to be a holiday?”

“It’s not work,” Mycroft bleated, trying to elude his hands. He flailed, holding the mobile as far out as his arms would reach. “I’m--playing Candy Crush.”

“False,” James charged, easily capturing the phone. Without looking, he tossed it toward the foot of the massive estate bed which his many times great grandfather had purchased from York when he brought his bride home in 1826. Many a Sholto baby had been conceived there, he’d informed Mycroft on the first night he stayed.

 _Shall I prepare my mother for the happy announcement?_ Mycroft had inquired dryly, and James had tumbled him onto the bed and told him to lie back and think of England. The next morning Mycroft told him he thought they were going about it the wrong way if he hoped to get a baby out of it. _But don’t, I beg you,_ he’d smirked, _let that stop you from trying._

They’d had a lot of highly "unfruitful" sex in the bed since that first night, and every time he had to retire to bed alone, James would remember the last time he was in it with company and smile. Dating Mycroft had given him many reasons to smile. Which was in and of itself another reason to smile. Mrs Gillie had told him to stop grinning to himself as he was upsetting the help, who expected the usual sour curmudgeon they all knew and disliked. James had merely limped off whistling. He really was insufferably happy these days.

Mycroft objected wordlessly now to this cavalier treatment of his phone. “You really are a caveman,” he groused, nevertheless snuggling his arse back into the insistent poke of James’ healthy morning interest. “That phone is _important. I_ am important.”

“Yes, yes,” James soothed, grazing his nape with his teeth and relishing the stuttered breathing and wanton moan which greeted his efforts, “Very important.” He smoothed his hand down Mycroft’s belly, watching his own hand disappear under the bedding, “Why are you wearing pyjamas?”

“I had to take a vital phone call early this morning,” Mycroft said primly, in a tone wildly at odds with his accommodating wiggle to allow James to grasp his eager morning erection. “I’m not swanning about your drafty barn of a house in naught but my skin.”

“I like your skin,” James grumbled, nosing his ear. “It’s my favourite thing about you.”

“Favourite?” Mycroft sniped in mock umbrage.

“One of them,” he amended, letting his dry, warm palm tug a bit roughly at Mycroft’s bollocks, which he knew from experience drove him mad. “There are one or two other points I like.”

“I’ll give you a _point,”_ Mycroft responded tartly, flouncing over in bed and pushing on James’ shoulders until he was lying on his back. Mycroft swung a leg over his hips and perched triumphantly atop him, grinning smugly. “I’ve got quite the point to make now, as a matter of fact.”

“You really are terrible at innuendo,” James grinned, smiling fondly up at his boyfriend, “it’s another one of those things I kind of like about you.”

“You really are impossibly hard to please,” Mycroft sighed bitchily, biting down on his smile.

“I’m hard alright,” James smirked.

“And you say my innuendos are terrible,” Mycroft sniffed. But he was smiling as he eased himself down on James’ chest, “Hello.”

James blinked at his face, which was very close, “Hello.”

“What are we doing today?” Mycroft rocked slightly, drawing a breath from James.

“Hopefully lots more of this,” James groaned, holding onto his quicksilver hips. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop him or urge him on.

“Only two more days of my holiday left,” Mycroft said, frown pulling at his smile. James hated it. He had been--they both had been--so happy these last two weeks.

“Don’t borrow trouble,” he said now, pulling Mycroft close and kissing his willing mouth. Mycroft had grown the most delicious beard during his stay, and James was going to miss it almost as much as he would miss Mycroft when he returned to London. But it was okay, he reminded himself, at least twice a month he visited Mycroft, and once a month Mycroft could usually steal away for a day or two and come see him at the Grange. Against all expected odds, his planned holiday had actually occurred without any last minute wars or diplomatic emergencies to derail it. “It’s been lovely.”

“It has,” Mycroft agreed, softening. His eyes glowed brightly, “I…” he hesitated, chewing briefly on his lip, and James recognized that he had something big he wanted to say but was unsure about. Slowly, he was learning that it was alright to open up, to share with James. James was learning as well. We’re not too old to try and make a go of this, he’d decided in the beginning of their new start, and so far it was all going almost too well. “I’m testing both Anthea’s readiness to take over, as well as how those in power will accept her. She’s terribly young to be in a position of such power, but then so was I.” With unconscious arrogance, he added, “And of course I’ve trained her.”

James’ breath caught, and he nudged Mycroft’s chin up so he could meet his eyes, “Mycroft...really? You’re--you’re thinking of retiring?”

“Not as such,” Mycroft admitted. “But...working fewer hours? Yes. I’ll maintain some authority as a consultant, but I will no longer run point over my department.” His gaze was level, slightly shuttered. “I’d...have more free time.”

James held onto his excitement. “What would you do with that free time?”

“I thought--travel?” Mycroft took a look at his expression, which must have fallen faster than a cake when the oven door was slammed, “With you,” he hurried to add. Licking his lips, he continued haltingly, “Mr Bell is nearing the age where he’ll retire in a few years, you said it yourself, and you were thinking of asking young Yuriy if he wanted to be Bell’s assistant. This would be a good opportunity for you and Bell to assess his readiness to take over.”

“You...want me to travel with you?” James asked, slightly stunned.

Mycroft pressed his lips together, lines tightening around his eyes; jerkily he nodded. “James...you and I, we’ve both dedicated years of our lives to Queen and country, to duty, to family obligation. We’ve forgotten to live. Wouldn’t you like to do that, now?” _With me_ went unspoken, but it hung between them as heavily as if Mycroft had uttered the words.

“Travel the world with you?” James asked. He surged up, capturing Mycroft’s face with rough gentleness, looked into his gorgeous eyes, “Yes,” he said roughly, “Yes, Mycroft Holmes, I think it’s time we both start living.”


End file.
